Reporter: This morning, shortly after 11:00, comedy struck this little house on Dibley Road. Sudden...violent...comedy.

Voiceover: It was a fantastic success. Over 60,000 times as powerful as Britain's great pre-war joke [Cut to stock footage of Neville Chamberlain returning from Munich and holding up the Munich Agreement, the "this is peace in our time"-bit.], and one which Hitler just couldn't match.

[Cut to stock footage of Hitler giving a speech.]

Hitler: [subtitle] My dog's got no nose!

Soldiers: [subtitle] How does he smell?

Hitler: [subtitle] Awful!

Narrator: In 1945, peace broke out. It was the end of the Joke. Joke warfare was banned at a special session of the Geneva Convention, and in 1950 the last remaining copy of the joke was laid to rest here in the Berkshire countryside, never to be told again.

Ken: I'll tell you what's wrong with you: your head's addled with novels and poems! You come home reeling of Chateau La Tour! And look what you've done to mother! She's worn out from meeting film stars, attending premieres, and giving gala luncheons!

Watkins: For the water-skiing and the travel, sir. Not for the killing, sir. I asked them to put it on my form, sir: "no killing".

Colonel: Watkins, are you a pacifist?

Watkins: No, sir. I'm not a pacifist, sir: I'm a coward.

Colonel: [disgusted] That's a very silly line. Sit down!

Teacher: [to a student] So, we want to learn how to defend ourselves against pointed sticks, do we? Feeling all high and mighty, eh? Fresh fruit not good enough, eh? Oh, oh, oh. Well, let me tell you something, my lad! When you're walking home tonight, and some homicidal maniac comes after you with a bunch of loganberries, don't come crying to me!

Man's Crisis of Identity in the Latter Half of the Twentieth Century [1.05]Edit

Encyclopedia Salesman: Burglar! [rings again] Burglar!

[woman appears at other side of door]

Woman: Yes?

Encyclopedia Salesman: Burglar, madam.

Woman: What do you want?

Encyclopedia Salesman: I want to come in and steal a few things, madam.

Woman: Are you an encyclopaedia salesman?

Encyclopedia Salesman: No madam, I'm a burglar, I burgle people.

Woman: I think you're an encyclopaedia salesman.

Encyclopedia Salesman: Oh I'm not, open the door, let me in please.

Woman: If I let you in, you'll sell me encyclopedias.

Encyclopedia Salesman: I won't, madam. I just want to come in and ransack the flat. Honestly.

Woman: Promise? No encyclopedias?

Encyclopedia Salesman: None at all.

Woman: All right. [she opens door] You'd better come in then.

Encyclopedia Salesman: Mind you, I don't know whether you've really considered the advantages of owning a really fine set of modern encyclopedias... You know, they can really do you wonders.

Policeman: I must warn you, sir, that outside I have police dog Josephine, who is not only armed and trained to sniff out certain substances but is also a junkie.

Mr. Figgis: Beethoven, Mozart, Chopin, Liszt, Brahms, Panties ...I'm sorry ... Schumann, Schubert, Mendelssohn and Bach. Names that will live for ever. But there is one composer whose name is never included with the greats, why is it the world never remembered the name of Johann Gambolputty de von Ausfern-schplenden-schlitter-crasscrenbon-fried-digger-dangle-dongle-dungle-burstein-Von-knacker-thrasher-apple-banger-horowitz-ticolensic-grander-knotty-spelltinkle-grandlich-grumblemeyer-spelterwasser-kurstlich-himbleeisen-bahnwagen-gutenabend-bitte-ein-nürnburger-bratwurstle-gerspurten-mit-zwei-macheluber-hundsfut-gumberaber-shoenendanker-kalbsfleisch-mittler-aucher von Hautkopft of Ulm?

Mr. Praline: It's not pining, it's passed on! This parrot is no more! It has ceased to be! It's expired and gone to meet its maker! This is a late parrot! It's a stiff! Bereft of life, it rests in peace! If you hadn't nailed it to the perch, it would be pushing up the daisies! Its metabolic processes are now history! He's off the twig! He's kicked the bucket, he's shuffled off the mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the choir invisible! This is an ex-parrot!

Arthur Wilson: [talking to George Head about the trek to Mt. Kilimanjaro, after he explains about the route] Does anyone speak Swahili?

George Head: Oh, I think most of them do down there.

Arthur Wilson: Does anyone in our party speak Swahili, sir?

George Head: Well, the matron's got a smattering.

Arthur Wilson: Apart from the two matrons.

George Head: Good God! I forgot about that.

Arthur Wilson: Apart from them, who else is coming?

George Head: Well, we've got the Arthur Brown twins, two botanists called Maychen, the William Johnston brothers—

Arthur Wilson: Two of them?

George Head: No, four of them; pair of identical twins. And a couple of the Ken Zobana quads; the other four pulled out. And of course, you two.

Woman: I object to all this sex on the television. I mean, I keep falling off.

Bevis: [explaining his fear of cutting hair to his customer] When I was a kid I used to hate the sight of hair being cut. My mother said I was a fool. She said the only way to cure it was to become a barber! So I spent five ghastly years at the Hairdressers' Training Centre at Totnes. Can you imagine what it's like; cutting the same hair for five years?! I didn't want to be a barber anyway. I wanted to be... a lumberjack!

Bevis: I always preferred the outdoor life…hunting…shooting…fishing…getting out there with a gun and slaughtering a few of God’s creatures.

Kenny Lust: Now, every so often here in the Refreshment Room it is my honor, my privilege, to welcome some the truly great international artists. And tonight we have one such artist. Ladies and gentlemen, someone who've I've always personally admired. More deeply, more strongly, more abjectly than anyone before. A man, no, more than a man, a god! A great god whose personality is so totally and utterly wonderful, that my feeble words of welcome sound wretchedly and pathetically inadequate. Someone whose boots I would gladly lick clean, until holes wore through my tounge! A man who is so totally and utterly wonderful, that I would rather be sealed in a pit of my filth than dare tread on the same stage with him. Ladies and gentlemen, the incomparably superior human being, Harry Fink! [crowd applauds]

Stage-hand: He can't come!

Kenny Lust: Never mind. He's not all that's cracked up to be.

Kenny Lust: Ken Buddha. A smile, two bangs, and a religion.

Spanish TV Host: "Pero las llamas son peligrosas. Si usted ve una llama donde hay gente﻿ nadando, usted gritar: ¡Cuidado! ¡Llamas!" ["Llamas are dangerous, so if you see one where people are swimming, you shout: Look out, there are Llamas!"]

Bevis: [sung] I cut down trees, I eat my lunch, I go to the lavatory. On Wednesdays I'll go shopping, and have buttered scones for tea.

Mounties Choir: [sung] He cuts down trees, he eats his lunch, he goes to the lavatory. On Wednesdays, he goes shopping, and has buttered scones for tea. He's a lumberjack and he's OK, he sleeps all night and he works all day.

Bevis: [sung] I cut down trees, I skip and jump, I like to press wildflowers. I put own womens' clothing, and hang around in bars.

Mounties Choir: [sung] He cuts down trees, he skips and jumps, he likes to press wildflowers. He puts on womens' clothing, and hangs around — [starts to show signs of disgust] — in bars? [perk back up] He's a lumberjack, and he's OK, he sleeps all night and he works all day.

Bevis: [sung] I cut down trees, I wear high heels, suspenders, and a bra. I wish I'd been a girlie, just like my dear Mama!

Mountie Choir: [sung] He cuts down trees, he wears — high heels? [choir storms out in revulsion, as Bevis continues singing, to his Best Girlie's dismay]

Bevis's Best Girlie: Oh, Bevis. And I thought you were so rugged! [runs off crying]

Man: [letter read aloud] Dear Sir, I wish to complain in the strongest possible terms about the song which had just broadcast about the lumberjack who wears women's clothes. Many of my best friends are lumberjacks and only a few of them are transvestites. Yours faithfully, Brigadier Sir Charles Arthur Strong (Ms.). P.S. I have never kissed the editor of the Radio Times.

Victor: No, I didn't mean that. I meant the fact we've spent time close together for so many months in the soft toy department, yet never truly daring to —

Iris: [bemused] Oh, Victor.

Victor: Oh, Iris.

Arthur Name: [at the door, greeting Victor] Hello! Remember me? In the pub; the tall thin one, with the moustache, about three years ago?

Victor: Well, uh —

Arthur Name: Ay, it's dark in here. [turns on the lights] That's better; you told me we must have a drink together sometime, so I decided to take you up on it, as the phone society meeting was cancelled. [turns towards Iris] 'Ello! I'm Arthur, Arthur Name. Name by name, but not by nature. I alsways say that, don't I Vicky boy? Is she your wife?

Victor: Not really, but —

Arthur Name: Oh, I get the picture. Don't mind me; I know all about one-night stands.

Victor: [insulted] I beg your pardon?!

Arthur Name: Here's a joke I heard down in the pub: what's brown, and sounds like a bell? Dung!

Mr. L'Equator: [introducing himself to Victor] Good evening. I'm L'Equator; Mr. L'Equator. Like 'round the middle of the Earth, only with an L.

Audrey: [laughs hysterically]

Mr. L'Equator: And this is my wife, Audrey. She smells a bit, but she has a heart of gold.

Counselor: Well, er, yes Mr. Anchovy, but you see your report here says that you are an extremely dull person. You see, our experts describe you as an appallingly dull fellow, unimaginative, timid, lacking in initiative, spineless, easily dominated, no sense of humour, tedious company and irrepressibly drab and awful. And whereas in most professions these would be considerable drawbacks, in chartered accountancy, they're a positive boon.

Interviewer: Ron, now let's just get this quite clear — you're intending to jump across the English Channel?

Ron Obvious: Oh yes, that is correct, yes.

Interviewer: And, er, just how far is that?

Ron Obvious: Oh, well it's 26 miles from here to Calais.

Interviewer: And that's to the beach of Calais?

Ron Obvious: Well, no, no, provided I get a good lift off and maybe a gust of breeze over the French coast, I shall be jumping into the centre of Calais itself. [Shows brief clip of some Frenchmen in Calais standing under a sign that says "Fin de Cross Channel Jump"]

Interviewer: Ron are you using any special techniques to jump this great distance?

Ron Obvious: Oh no, no. I shall be using an ordinary two-footed jump, er, straight up in the air and across the Channel.

Interviewer: I see. Er, Ron, what is the furthest distance that you've jumped, er, so far?

Ron Obvious: Er, oh, eleven foot six inches at Motspur Park on July 22nd. Er, but I have done nearly twelve feet unofficially.

Interviewer: Mr. Vercotti, what is your chief task as Ron's manager?

Luigi Vercotti: Well my main task is, er, to fix a sponsor for the big jump.

Interviewer: And who is the sponsor?

Luigi Vercotti: The Chippenham Brick Company. Ah, they, er, pay all the bills, er, in return for which Ron will be carrying half a hundredweight of their bricks. [Ron is having his passport checked by a customs officer]

Interviewer: I see. Well, er, it looks as if Ron is ready now. He's got the bricks. He's had his passport checked and he's all set to go. And he's off on the first ever cross-Channel jump. [Ron runs down the beach and jumps. He lands about four feet into the water] Will Ron be trying the cross Channel jump again soon?

Luigi Vercotti: No. No. I'm taking him off the jumps, Er, because I've got something lined up for Ron next week that I think is very much more up his street.

Interviewer: And what is that?

Luigi Vercotti: Uh, Ron is going to eat Chichester Cathedral.

[Cuts to Ron approaching Chichester Cathedral, brushing his teeth]

Interviewer: Well, there he goes, Ron Obvious of Neepsend, in an attempt which could make him the first man ever to eat an entire Anglican Cathedral. [Ron finishes brushing his teeth, puts on a bib, and flexes his jaws before biting into the corner of a buttress and breaking his jaw]

[The interviewer and Vercotti are walking alongside a railroad track]

Interviewer: Mr. Vercotti, what do you say to people who accuse you of exploiting Ron for your own purposes?

Luigi Vercotti: Well, it's totally untrue, David. Ever since I left Sicily I've been trying to do the best for Ron. I know what Ron wants to do, I believe in him and I'm just trying to create the opportunities for Ron to do the kind of things he wants to do.

Interviewer: And what's he going to do today?

Luigi Vercotti: He's going to split a railway carriage with his nose.

[A scream is heard off screen]

[The interviewer is seen standing with Vercotti beneath a ramp with a banner that says "Running to Mercury"]

Luigi Vercotti: The only difficult bit for Ron is getting out of the Earth's atmosphere, but once he's in orbit he'll be able to run straight to Mercury. [Wrapped from head to toe in bandages from his previous exploits, Ron hobbles onto the ramp, and as he goes off the edge of the ramp, the scene freeze-frames in mid-jump and another scream is heard.]

Inspector Tiger: This house is surrounded. I'm afraid I must not ask anyone to leave the room. No, I must ask nobody... no, I must ask everybody to... I must not ask anyone to leave the room. No one must be asked by me to leave the room. No, no one must ask the room to leave. I... I... ask the room shall by someone be left. Not. Ask nobody the room somebody leave shall I. Shall I leave the room? Everyone must leave the room... as it is... with them in it. Phew. Understand?

Colonel Pickering: You don't want anybody to leave the room.

Inspector Tiger: [clicking fingers to indicate Colonel Pickering has hit the nail on the head] Now, alduce me to introlow myslef. I'm sorry. Alself me to myduce introlow myslef. Introme-to-lose mlow alself. Alme to you introself mylowduce. Excuse me a moment. [bangs himself on the side of the head] Allow me to introduce myself. I'm afraid I must ask that no one leave the room. Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Inspector Tiger.

Mr. Bimmler: Pleased to meet you, squire. I also am not of Minehead but I in Peterborough Lincolnshire's house was given birth to. But am staying in Peterborough Lincolnshire house all time during vor, due to nasty running sores, and vos unable to go in the streets and play football or go to Nuremburg. ah. Am retired vindow cleaner and pacifist, who's not doing war crimes. Oh... and am glad England vin Vorld Cup. Bobby Charlton. Martin Peters. And eating lots of chips and fish and hole in the toads and Dundee cakes on Piccadilly Line, don't you know old chap, And I vos head of Gestapo for 10 years. [Mr. Hilter elbows him in the ribs] Five years! [Hilter elbows him again, harder] No! No! Nein! Vos not head of Gestapo at ALL! I make joke!

Announcer: This man, he doesn't know when he's beaten! He doesn't know when he's winning, either. He has no… sort of… sensory apparatus…

Interviewer: Minister, in your plan, "A Better Britain For Us", you promised to build 88 thousand million billion houses a year in the greater London area alone. In fact, you've built only three in the last 15 years.

Vince: One day, I was sitting at home, threatening the kids, when this tank drives up. One of Dinsdale's boys gets out all nice and friendly like, and says Dinsdale wants to have a talk with me. So, he chains me to the back of the tank, and takes me for a scrape round to Dinsdale's place. Dinsdale's there in the conversation pit with Doug, Charles Paisley the Baby Crusher, a couple of film producers and a man they called Kierkegaard, who just sat there biting the heads of whippets. And Dinsdale says 'I hear you've been a naughty boy, Clement', and he splits me nostrils open, saws me leg off and pulls me liver out. And I tell him 'My name's not Clement', and then he loses his temper and nails my head to the floor.

Interviewer: Was there anything unusual about Dinsdale?

Woman: Certainly not! He was perfectly normal in every way! Except... inasmuch as he thought he was being followed by a giant hedgehog named Spiny Norman.

Interviewer: Doug and Dinsdale Piranha were born on probation in this house Kipling Road,Suffolk the eldest sons in a family of sixteen. Their father, Arthur Piranha, a scrap metal dealer and local T.V. Quizmaster, was known by the police and a devout Catholic.

Doctor: [emerging from under a Scotsman's kilt] Look, would you please go away? I'm trying to examine this man! It's all right, I'm a doctor... actually I'm a gynecologist, but this is my lunch hour.

Psychiatrist Milkman: Mrs. Ratbag, if you don't mind me saying so, you're badly in need of an expensive course of psychiatric treatment. Now, I'm not going to say that a trip to our dairy will cure you, but it will give hundreds of lower-paid workers a good laugh.

Mr. Wiggin: This is a 12-story block combining classical neo-Georgian features with the efficiency of modern techniques. The tenants arrive here and are carried along the corridor on a conveyor belt in extreme comfort, past murals depicting Mediterranean scenes, towards the rotating knives. The last twenty feet of the corridor are heavily soundproofed. The blood pours down these chutes and the mangled flesh slurps into these...

Client 1: Excuse me.

Mr. Wiggin: Yes?

Client 1: Did you say 'knives'?

Mr. Wiggin: Rotating knives, yes.

Client 2: Do I take it that you are proposing to slaughter our tenants?

Cyril: In the debate, a spokesman accused the government of being silly and doing not at all good things. The member accepted this in the spirit of healthy criticism, but denied that he had ever been naughty with a choir boy. Angry shouts of 'What about the watermelon then?' were ordered then by the speaker to be stricken from the record and put into a brown paper bag in the lavvy. Any further interruptions would be cut up and distributed amongst the poor. For the Government, a front-bench spokesman said the Agricultural Tariff would have to be raised, and he fancied a bit. Furthermore, he argued, this would give a large boost to farmers, and a great deal of fun to him, his friends, and Miss Moist of Knightsbridge. From the back benches there were opposition shouts of 'Postcards for sale' and a healthy cry of 'Who likes a sailor then?' from the Minister Without Portfolio. Replying, the Shadow Minister said he could no longer deny the rumors, but he and the Dachshund were very happy. And in any case, he argued, rhubarb was cheap, and what was the harm in a sauna bath?

Mr. Brando: Yes, we have quite a number of idiots banking here.

Interviewer: What kind of money is there in idioting?

Mr. Brando: Well, nowadays the really blithering idiot can make anything up to 10,000 pounds a year if he's the head of some big industrial combine. But of course the more old fashion idiot still refuses to take money. He takes bits of string, wood, dead budgerigars, sparrows, anything. But it does make the cashier's job very difficult.

Reverend Arthur Belling: There are a great many people in the country today, who through no fault of their own, are sane. Some of them were born sane, while others became sane later in their lives. It is up to people like you and me, who are out of our tiny little minds, to help them overcome their sanity. You can start in small ways, with ping pong ball eyes and a funny voice, and then perhaps paint half of your body red and their other half green, and then stand in a bowl of treacle going "SQWAK SQWAK SQWAK!" Finally, you can roll around on the floor going "p'ting p'ting p'ting!"

Announcer: The Reverend Arthur Belling is vicar at the St. Loony Up the Cream Bun and Jam.

Bruce: Rule 1 — no pooftahs. Rule 2 — no member of the faculty is to maltreat the abos in any way whatsoever if there's anyone watching. Rule 3 — no pooftahs. Rule 4 — I don't want to catch any of you not drinking after lights out. Rule 5 — no pooftahs. Rule 6 — there is NO Rule 6. Rule 7 — no pooftahs!

Vanilla Hoare: Look, you crumb bum, I'm a star. Star, star, star! I don't get a million dollars to act out of a trench. I played Mrs. St John the Baptist in a trench, and I played Mrs. Napoleon Bonaparte in a trench, and I played Mrs. Alexander Fleming in a furrow, so if you want this scene played out of a trench, well you just get yourself a goddamn stuntman! I played Mrs. Galileo in a groove and I played Mrs. Jesus Christ in a geological syncline!

Mr. Last: You've got a pet halibut?

Mr. Praline: Yes. I chose him out of a thousand. I didn't like the others; they were all too flat.

Mr. Last: You're a loony!

Mr. Praline: I AM NOT A LOONY! Why should I be tarred with the epithet "loony" merely because I have a pet halibut? I've heard tell that Sir Gerald Nabarro has a pet prawn called Simon, and you wouldn't call Sir Gerald a loony, would you? Furthermore, Dawn Pelforth, the lady show jumper, had a clam called Sir Stefford after the late Chancellor, Allen Bullock has two pikes, both called Norman, and the late, great Marcel Proust had a haddock! If you're calling the author of À la recherche du temps perdu a loony, I shall have to ask you to step outside!

Narrator: In 1970 the British Empire lay in ruins, foreign nationals frequented the streets, many of them Hungarians (not the streets—the foreign nationals). Anyway, many of these Hungarians went into tobacconists shops to buy cigarettes...

Mrs Premise: Well, no, no, but it's not at all a well cat. So, as we were going away for a fortnight's holiday, I thought I'd better bury it just to be on the safe side.

Mrs Conclusion: Quite right. You don't want to come back from Sorrento to a dead cat. It'd be so anticlimactic. Yes, kill it now, that's what I say.

Mrs Premise: Yes.

Mrs Conclusion: We're going to have our budgie put down.

Mrs Premise: Really? Is it very old?

Mrs Conclusion: No. We just don't like it.

Third Whicker: Father Pierre, why did you stay on in this colonial Campari-land where the clink of glasses mingles with the murmur of a million mosquitoes, where waterfalls of whisky wash away the worries of a world-weary Whicker, where gin and tonic jingle in a gyroscopic jubilee of something beginning with J? Father Pierre, why did you stay on here?

Father Pierre: [putting on a pair of Whicker-style glasses] Well, mainly for the interviews.

Host: Tschaikowsky: Was he the tortured soul who poured out his immortal longings into dignified passages of stately music, or was he just an old poof who wrote tunes?

Newsreader: The BBC wishes to deny rumors that it is going into liquidation. Mrs Kelly, who owns the flat where they live, has said that they can stay on till the end of the month... (he is handed a piece of paper) and we've just heard that Huw Weldon's watch has been accepted by the London Electricity Board and transmissions for this evening can be continued as planned. (he coughs and pulls the blanket tighter round his shoulders) That's all from me so... goodnight.

[Banging is heard at the door]

Mr Kelly: Are you going to be in there all night?

Newsreader: It's just a bulletin, Mr Kelly... and now back to the story.

Merchant Banker: Ah, Mr. Victim, I'm glad to say we've got the go-ahead to lend you the money you required. We will, of course, need for security the deed to your house, the deed to your aunt's house, of your wife's parents' house, and of your granny's bungalow. And we will in addition need a controlling interest in the stock of your new company, unrestricted access to your private bank accounts, the deposit of your three children in our vaults as hostages, and a full legal indemnity in case of any embezzlement carried out against you by members of our staff during the normal course of their duties. No, I'm afraid we couldn't accept your dog instead of your youngest child, but we would like to suggest a brand new scheme of ours in which 51 percent of your wife and your dog pass to us in the event of your suffering a serious accident.

"Life and Death Struggles" Narrator: Here you see some English comic actors engaged in a life or death struggle with a rather weak ending. This is typical of the zany madcap world of the irresistible kooky funsters. The English pantomime horse wins and so is assured of a place in British history, and a steady job at a Merchant Bank. Unfortunately, before his pension rights are assured, he catches bronchitis and dies. Another victim of the need to finish these shows on time.

Arthur Mee: Well, ladies and gentlemen, I don't think any of our contestants tonight succeeded in encapsulating the intricacies of Proust's masterwork. So, I'm going to give the award to the girl with the biggest tits.

Narrator: Mount Everest. Forbidding. Aloof. Terrifying. The mountain with the biggest tits in the world.

Documentary Presenter: The gastropod is a randy little fellow whose tiny brain scarcely strays from the subject of you-know-what. The randiest of the gastropods is the limpet; this hot-blooded little beast, with its tent-like shell, is always on the job. Its extramarital activities are something startling. Frankly, I don't know how the female limpet finds the time to adhere to the rock face! How am I doing?

Gladys: Disgusting!

George: But more interesting!

Documentary Presenter: Another loose-living gastropod is the periwinkle. This shameless little libertine with its characteristic ventral locomotion is not the marrying kind! "Anywhere, anytime" is its motto, off with the shell and they're at it!

Gladys: What about the lemmelebrates?

Documentary Presenter: I'm coming to them. The Great Scallop: This tacky, scrofulous old rapist is second in depravity only to the common clam. This latter is a right whore! A harlot! A cynical, bed-hopping, firm-breasted, Rabelaisian bit of seafood that makes Fanny Hill look like a dead pope! And finally, among the lemmelebrate bivalves, that most depraved of the whole subspecies, the whelk. The whelk is nothing but a homosexual of the worst kind! This gay boy of the gastropods, this queer crustacian, this mincing mollusk, this screaming, prancing, limp-wristed queen of the deep makes me sick!

Announcer: We would like to apologize for the way in which politicians are represented in this programme. It was never our intention to imply that politicians are weak-kneed, political time-servers who are more concerned with their personal vendettas and private power struggles than the problems of government. Nor to suggest at any point that they sacrifice their credibility by denying free debate on vital matters in the mistaken impression that party unity comes before the well-being of the people they supposedly represent. Nor to imply at any stage that they are squabbling little toadies without an ounce of concern for the vital social problems of today. Nor indeed do we intend that viewers should consider them as crabby, ulcerous, little self-seeking vermin with furry legs and an excessive addiction to alcohol and certain explicit sexual practices which some people might find offensive. We are sorry if this impression has come across.

Announcer #1: The BBC would like to apologize to everyone in the world for that last item. It was disgusting and bad and thoroughly disobedient, and please don't bother to phone up because we know it was very tasteless, but they didn't really mean it and they all come from broken homes and have very unhappy personal lives, especially Eric. Anyway, they're all really nice people underneath, and very warm in the traditional show business way. And please don't write in either because the BBC is going through an unhappy phase at the moment, what with its father dying, and the mortgage, and BBC2 going out with men.

Announcer #2: The BBC would like to deny the last apology. It is very happy at home, and BBC2 is bound to go through this phase, so from all of us here, good night, sleep well, and have an absolutely super day tomorrow, kiss kiss.

Badger: Ah, wait a tic, wait a tic. Er, my first is in Glasgow but not in Spain, my second is in steamer but not in train, my whole is in the luggage compartment on the plane... I'll tell you where the bomb is for a pound.

Second Pilot: It's in the luggage compartment.

Badger: Right. Here's your pound.

Narrator: This is the planet Algon, fifth world in the system of Aldebaran, the Red Giant in the constellation of Sagittarius. Here an ordinary cup of drinking chocolate costs four million pounds, an immersion heater for the hot-water tank costs over six billion pounds, and a pair of split-crotch panties would be almost unobtainable.

Mrs O: [reading her horoscope] You have green, scaly skin, and a soft yellow underbelly with a series of fin-like ridges running down your spine and tail. Although lizardlike in shape, you can grow anything up to thirty feet in length with huge teeth that can bite off great rocks and trees. You inhabit arid subtropical zones, and you wear spectacles.

Mrs Trepidatious: It's very good about the spectacles.

Mrs O: It's amazing!

"Prejudice" Host: Well now, the result of last week's competition when we asked you to find a derogatory term for the Belgians. Well, the response was enormous and we took quite a long time sorting out the winners. There were some very clever entries. Mrs Hatred of Leicester said 'let's not call them anything, let's just ignore them'. And a Mr St John of Huntingdon said he couldn't think of anything more derogatory than 'Belgians'. But in the end we settled on three choices: number three... 'The Sprouts', sent in by Mrs Vicious of Hastings... very nice; number two... 'The Phlegms', from Mrs Childmolester of Worthing; but the winner was undoubtedly from Mrs No-Supper-For-You from Norwood in Lancashire... 'Miserable Fat Belgian Bastards'!

Presenter: Would Albert Einstein ever have hit upon the theory of relativity if he hadn't been clever? All these tremendous leaps forward have been taken in the dark. Would Rutherford ever have split the atom if he hadn't tried? Could Marconi have invented the radio if he hadn't by pure chance spent years working at the problem? Are these amazing breakthroughs ever achieved except by years and years of unremitting study? Of course not. What I said earlier about accidental discoveries must have been wrong.

Scientist: If we increase the size of the penguin until it is the same height as the man and then compare the relative brain size, we now find that the penguin's brain is still smaller. But, and this is the point, it is larger than it was!

Antoinette: Oh, Joseph! All you think about is balloons. All you talk about is balloons. Your beautiful house is full of bits and pieces of balloons. Your books are all about balloons, every time you sing a song, it is in some way obliquely connected with balloons... Everything you eat has to have "balloon" incorporated in the title. Your dogs are all called Balloono. You tie balloons to your ankles in the evenings!

Antoinette: Well, no, you don't do that. But you do duck down and shout, "Hey! Balloons!" when there are none about. Your whole life is becoming obsessively balloonic, you know... Oh-h-h! Why do I have to hang from this bloody gas bag all day?

[Joseph Montgolfier bursts out of his bath, wearing only a towel, to confront the fake Louis XIV]

Louis XIV imposter: [menacingly] All right, I'm Louis XVI! Listen to me, smart-ass, when you're the King of France, you've got better things to do than go around all day remembering your bloody number!

Second Store Assistant: So, sir, that is, if I may say so, 184 pounds 1 and a half pea, sir.

Chris: Oh, will you take a check?

Second Store Assistant: Ah yes sir, if you don't mind leaving a blood sample, and uh, a piece of skin off the back of the scalp, just here sir. Sorry, it's just for identification, you know, can't be too careful.

Chris: I think I'll put it on account.

Second Store Assistant: I should think so, much less painful.

Mother: What have you got now?

Chris: I bought an ant, mother.

Mother: What d'you want one of them for! I'm not going to clean it out. You said you'd clean the tiger out, but do you? No, I suppose you've lost interest in it now. Now it'll be ant ant ant for a couple of days, then all of a sudden, 'oh, mum, I've bought a sloth' or some other odd-toed ungulate like a tapir.

Chris: It's really different this time, mum. I'm really going to look after this ant.

Mother: That's what you said about the sperm whale... now your papa's having to use it as a garage.

Chris: Well, you didn't feed it properly.

Mother: Where are we going to get 44 tons of plankton from every morning? Your dad was dead vexed about that. They thought he was mad in the deli.

Chris: Well at least he's got a free garage.

Mother: That's no good to him... his Hillman smells all fishy. [growl from the tiger] Oh blimey, that's the tiger. He'll want his mandies.

Chris: Are you giving that tiger drugs?

Mother: 'Course I'm giving it drugs!

Chris: It's illegal.

Mother: You try telling that to the tiger.

Chris: I think it's dangerous.

Mother: Listen, before he started fixing, he used to get through four Jehovah's witnesses a day. And he used to eat all of them, except the pamphlets.

Private Shirley: Well... the enemy were all wearing little silver halos, sir. And they had fairy wands with big stars on the end, and...

General Shirley: They what?!

Private Shirley: They had spiders in matchboxes, sir!

General Shirley: Good God! How did our chaps react?

Private Shirley: Well, they... they were jolly interested, sir! Some of them, I think it was the Fourth Armoured Brigade, they...

General Shirley: Yes?

Private Shirley: Well, they went and had a look at the spiders, sir!

Peter Woods: We interrupt show jumping to bring you a news flash. The Second World War has now entered a sentimental stage. The morning on the Ardennes Front, the Germans started spooning at dawn, but the British Fifth Army responded by gazing deep in their eyes, and the Germans are reported to have gone 'all coy'.

Trappre: [pointing to the dogs] The one on the end, on the right. That's Salad.

Captain Carpenter: That's a dog.

Trappre: No, only bits of him.

Captain Carpenter: What do you mean?

Trappre: Listen, Teddy Salad's the most brilliant agent the CIA ever had, alright? That's how he made his name, disguise.

Captain Carpenter: That's incredible!

Trappre: Yeah. He had to slim-down to one and a half pounds to get into that costume. Eighteen inches off each arm, and over three feet off each leg. The most brilliant surgeon in Europe stuck that tail on.

Captain Carpenter: What about the head?

Trappre: All of the head was removed, apart from the eyes and the brain, in order to fit into the costume.

Mr Neutron: I want you to be my helpmate. As Tarzan had his Jane, as Napoleon had his Josephine, as Frankie Laine had whoever he had. I want you to help me in my plan to dominate the world!

Vendor: A strong hive of bees contains approximately 75,000 bees. Each honey bee must make 154 trips to collect one teaspoon of honey. Hello, sir.

Dad: What do you want?

Vendor: Would you like to buy some of our honey, sir?

Mother: What you doing in here?

Vendor: Which would you like, the Californian Orange Blossom, the Mexican, the New Zealand, or the Scottish Heather?

Mother: He can't eat honey. It makes him go plop plops.

Vendor: Come on, please try some.

Dad: All right, I'll have some Icelandic Honey.

Vendor: No, there is no such thing.

Dad: You mean you don't make any honey at all?

Vendor: No, no, we must import it all. Every bally drop. We are a gloomy people. It's so crikey cold and dark up there, and only fish to eat. Fish and imported honey. Oh strewth!

Mother: Well why do you have a week?

Vendor: Listen buster! In Rejkyavik it is dark for eight months of the year, and it's cold enough to freeze your wrists off and there's only golly fish to eat. Administrative errors are bound to occur in enormous quantities. Look at this — it's all a mistake. It's a real pain in the sphincter! Icelandic Honey Week? My life!

Mother: Well why do you come in here trying to flog the stuff, then?

Vendor: Listen cowboy, I got a job to do. IT'S A STUPID, POINTLESS JOB, BUT AT LEAST IT KEEPS ME AWAY FROM ICELAND, ALL RIGHT? The leg of the worker bee has...